But, concerning the young chief from the south of whom Tecumseh had spoken, she did think long and dubiously. Would she meet him among the whites to whom she was going and would she know him if she did meet him? Had he come to Ohio at all, or had his heart failed him as he faced the long trail to the north? Had he, like all other Americans, spoken with a forked tongue when he promised to come? Had he scorned his Indian-bred cousin, as she knew his people scorned the Indians?
And what was he like? Tecumseh had said that he was young, big, strong, and fair-haired. Methoataske, mother of Tecumseh, had spoken—Alagwa remembered it dimly—of a youth whom she had adopted into the Panther clan far away to the south at the edge of the Big Sea Water—a youth with blue eyes and yellow hair. Alagwa formed a picture in her mind.
Then she caught herself up angrily. After all, what did it matter. She was not going to meet this youth. Rather she would avoid him. His people were at war with hers. He was her enemy. She would think of him no more.
Abruptly Wilwiloway halted, stiffening like a hunting dog. Behind him Alagwa stopped in her tracks, poising as motionless as some wild thing of the forest, listening to a rattling and clinking that came from the narrow, vistaless road that stretched before her.
In a moment Wilwiloway turned his head. “White men come in wagon,” he said. “Squaw stop here. Wilwiloway go see.” He slipped into the bushes and was gone.
Alagwa, with the obedience ingrained into her since childhood, waited where she stood, peering through the green foliage that laced across her eyes.
Soon a wagon drawn by two mules clattered into the field of her vision. On the box sat a white man, driving, with a rifle across his knees. Beside the wagon walked another white man, with a rifle in the hollow of his arm. A little behind rode two other men; one, marvel of marvels, was neither red nor white, but black; the other—Alagwa caught her breath—was young and big and fair-haired.
Abruptly she saw Wilwiloway step into the road and throw up his hand. “Peace,” he called. The young man on horseback behind threw up his right palm in answer. “Peace,” he answered, in the Shawnee tongue, smilingly.
But as he spoke Alagwa saw the white man on the box throw up his rifle with a meaning not to be mistaken. His action swept away her Indian training in a breath and she sprang forward with a shriek of warning.
Too late! The rifle spoke and Wilwiloway reeled backward, clutching at the air. Against a tree trunk he fell and held himself up, a dark stain widening swiftly upon the white of his shirt.